Master and Fool (49 page)

He pulled his
knife from his belt and
offered
it to Jack. "Here, take this."

Jack shook his
head. He patted his tunic, and for the first time Tawl realized that it was
looking decidedly bulky. "Rocks," he said. "I might be no good
with a bow, but I can throw a rock with the best of 'em."

Tawl smiled. Again
he wanted to say something, and again the words failed him. "Good
thinking," he said, when what he really meant to say was, If
the worst
happens here tonight, I promise you we'll go down fighting, together.

"Come on,
then," said Jack, scrambling on all fours. "Let's see if we can make
it to the temple while the moon's behind that cloud."

Tawl raced after
him.

Breathless, backs
aching and shins throbbing, they arrived at the temple a few minutes later. The
cloud had failed them in the last thirty seconds. The wind, however, had blown
hard and long, muffling the sound of their footfalls with all the timing of a
third accomplice.

Jack had to run
with a hand clamped to his waist to stop the rocks in his tunic from beating
against his chest.

They stood to the
side of the temple steps and caught their breaths. There was no one in sight.
No fight escaped from inside. All was quiet apart from the wind.

Jack wanted to sit
down. The muscles in his thighs hadn't recovered from being bound and they were
screaming for rest. He ignored them. He didn't want to appear weak in front of
Tawl. Leaning against the rise of the step for support, Jack noticed the stone
wasn't quite as cold as it should be. Granite should feel cool to the touch,
not barely below tepid.

Everything about
the island was unnatural: the water, the mist, the rock. Its differences
jangled against Jack's nerves like a song played out of tune. Dimly, he was
aware that the place was having a physical effect upon him, tightening the muscles
around his heart, causing the skin to pull taut across his face and his breath
to come quick and ragged. First he tried to excuse these as aftereffects of the
wreck. Now he just ignored them.

The one thing he
couldn't ignore was the
rhythm
of the place. It permeated everything:
the waves lapping against the shore, the water dripping from the rocks, the
rocks themselves, even the wind. Everything was moving in time. The sensation
grew stronger as they made their way through the cliff side, and now, breath-close
to the temple, it was so strong it was almost overbearing. At first Jack's
heart had actively fought against the lure of the rhythm, now it was trying to
fall in time.

Suddenly scared,
Jack said, "Let's try and get inside." The sound of his own voice
should have been a comfort, but the words carved the cadence of Larn.

The steps were
low. Worn to curves by centuries worth of footsteps, they cradled Jack's every
step. For a moment it seemed as if the place was almost welcoming him. Jack
firmly dispelled the thought, but even as he did, he started to place his feet
on the ridges between the curves.

Tawl had drawn his
knife. The tip was down, the blade was forward. As he climbed, it flashed in
the moonlight. The door to the temple towered above them. Fashioned out of oak,
it was old, dark, and weather-beaten. Seeing it, Jack realized that it must
have been shipped here, for there wasn't a single tree on the island. He
pressed against it, lightly at first, and then harder when there was no give. "It
must be bolted on the inside." Frustrated, he swung back his arm, ready to
beat against the door.

Tawl caught his
wrist before it came down. "We'll find another way in."

Heads down,
hugging shadows, they made their way around the side of the temple. There was
now an unspoken sense of urgency between them, and each step lost a measure of
caution to speed. The temple was shaped from massive blocks of granite. Ancient
beyond telling, it boasted no adornments, no pillars, nothing to relieve the
eye. High above their heads was a series of barred vents. Jack didn't waste a
minute thinking about them; the only way they could be reached was from the
roof.

The temple flared
out toward the back. Granite slabs jutted from the main wall, breaking the line
of the building. The stone was cleaner, its angles more defined-obviously a
later addition. Just as they reached the end of the annex, Jack caught the
smell of woodsmoke in his nostrils. He looked at Tawl, who nodded at him.
Woodsmoke meant people.

Drawing level with
the end corner of the building, they peered around the back. A collection of
sheds and lean-tos clustered close to the temple. Old, rickety huts shaped
suspiciously like parts of ships.

"They built
these from shipwrecks, by the looks of them," whispered Tawl.
"They're probably storage huts or servants' quarters."

"Then
there'll be a way in." Jack scanned the buildings. He saw the glow of a
fire, and then something moving back and forth right by it. Rocking. Someone
was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking to and fro in time to the rhythm of the
island. Jack felt a cold chill claw down his spine. It was an old woman. Her
chair faced the temple and she rocked toward it with blind intent. Jack
followed the line of her rocking. Straight ahead of her, in the temple's back
wall, there was a dark rectangle marking a door.

Jack knew, more
surely than he had ever known anything before in his life, that the door would
be open. The old woman was showing them the way.

He tapped Tawl
lightly on the shoulder. "We're safe for now. Let's go." Jack had
come to know the knight well, for he guessed Tawl wouldn't question him-and he
was right.

Tawl simply nodded
once and then followed him forward.

If the old woman
saw them, she never gave anything away, just kept on rocking back and forth.

The door swung
back the moment Jack touched it. Cool, stale air brushed against Jack's cheek,
and he stepped into the temple at Larn.

The rhythm was
strong, compelling, pulsing like a heartbeat. Jack felt it all around him,
stifling yet strangely familiar. His own heart was now only split seconds out
of time.

They were in a
dim, low-ceilinged room. Bare stone walls, bare stone floor, and several wooden
tables stacked high with pots. The light was coming from the corridor opposite
the door. Jack made straight toward it. Tawl put a restraining hand on his arm.
"Me first," he said, dropping his gaze to his knife. Jack pulled two
fist-sized rocks from his tunic and let him past.

The air was so
cold their breath whitened before them, yet once again the stone in his hand
didn't quite match the surrounding temperature: it was a fraction warmer. They
walked down the narrow torch-lit corridor. Occasionally there were doors
leading off to the sides. Tawl ignored them. He seemed to know where he was
going.

Something creaked
behind them. A voice called out: "Who goes there?"

Jack was pushed
out of the way by Tawl. His head hit the stone wall. A jolt raced through his
nerves, setting the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He looked up in
time to see Tawl knifing a hooded man in the chest. The knight's large,
well-shaped hands were firmly clamped over the man's mouth.

"Help me get
him back into his room," hissed Tawl. Jack was still reeling from hitting
the wall. He felt almost light-headed. By the time he reached Tawl, a dark pool
of blood had formed around the dead man's feet.

Tawl was shaking.
Together they lifted the man and placed him on a stone bench in what looked to
be his own personal chamber. They were in the priests' living quarters.

Tawl paused to clean
his knife against the dead man's habit and then they left.

Footsteps scuttled
lightly in the distance.

Jack and Tawl
exchanged a glance. There was nothing to do but move forward. Jack's head was
throbbing. He couldn't understand why; Tawl hadn't shoved him hard, yet he felt
as if he were punch-drunk.

The corridor took
a sharp turn to the left. Four hooded men blocked their path. They were armed
with curved swords. Jack didn't pause to think. He hurled a rock toward the
first man, catching him on the arm. The second rock followed straight after,
but it missed its target and went smashing into the stone wall. Tawl sprang
toward the man with the injured arm. Jack reached in his tunic for more rocks
and threw them at the remaining three, hoping to buy time for Tawl.

The knight made a
quick, jerking movement, and the first man fell to the floor. Knife out before
him, he spun around to face the other three.

Jack had run out
of rocks. He knew Tawl needed help fast. He centered his thoughts upon the
hooded men's blades. He felt the cool-metal hardness, the solid form of iron
shot with carbon. He formed the intent, forced his stomach to contract, and
then
nothing.
No push, no energy, no coppery tang upon his tongue.

Tawl was backed up
against the wall; two hooded men held him at sword's point. Desperate, Jack
concentrated again. This time he thought of Rovas laying his hands upon
Tarissa. The image was bright, biting, more vivid than he had expected. The
emotions that came with it were like a slap in the face. His feelings hadn't
changed: he still loved her.

Still there was no
spark. Jack felt as if the temple, as if the very stone that surrounded him,
was stopping the sorcery from coming through.

There was no time
to wonder why. Grabbing a torch from the wall, Jack plunged ahead. The third
man came forward to meet him, his sword slicing half-circles around his body.
Even now, even after everything that had happened, Jack still remembered Rovas'
advice: "Do
anything to throw your opponent off guard: dance, laugh,
cry. Anything. "
Everyone was afraid of fire, thought Jack, and he
thrust the burning torch right for his attacker's face. It didn't come even
close to burning him, but instinct made the man step back.

It was all Jack
needed. His mind was on the space surrounding the first man's body. His eye was
on the blade. Switching the torch from right hand to left, Jack thrust forward.
Streams of flame and smoke trailed from the torch. Sweeping down, Jack grasped
the hilt of the first man's blade. Then he threw the torch at what he hoped was
the third man's vitals-it was difficult to tell, as the man was wearing a long
unbelted habit.

Whether he reached
the target or not, the effect was still the same. The man backed away,
screaming. His habit caught fire, and Jack let him burn. He didn't have time
for a mercy killing.

Swinging around,
he tackled the nearest of Tawl's attackers. The rhythm of Larn was throbbing in
his head, and instead of fighting it, Jack made it his own, thrusting and
hacking with each beat. The tempo fitted him like a glove. He felt exhilarated,
powerful, in control. The hooded man was a bloody corpse within a minute.

Tawl finished the
last man off. Jack was shocked to see a gash running down the knight's side.

Shouts and more
footsteps came from behind. Bending down to pick up one of the curved blades,
Tawl thrust his fist against the wound. "You go ahead. I'll hold them off
for a minute to give you time to get to the cavern." As he spoke, blood
ran between his fingers and down his thigh.

"No. We'll go
together." The cries and footsteps were getting louder. Jack held out his
hand. "Come on."

Tawl reached out
and grasped it. They stood for a moment, bound together by the knight's blood,
and then they pulled apart and ran.

The air above the
Great Divide was perfectly still. Diamond-clear and diamond-cold, it cut
through a man's bones to the marrow beneath. Ice had formed on the path and the
rocks and the broadsides of plants. Wafer-thin, fossilwhite, it gained mass
beneath the moon.

The moon itself
kept its distance. It hung above the mountains with the dispassion of an
ancient god.

Kedrac, Maybor's
firstborn and heir to the most valuable estate in the kingdoms, stood on a
narrow rise and surveyed his troops. Six thousand men stood ready. Six thousand
men fully-armed, fighting-fit, and impatient for a kill. It had been a long
dreary summer at Annis. Their restlessness affected Kedrac like a drug. Sleep,
he had told them five hours earlier. He might as well have told the dead to
walk.

No one had slept.
They sat in circles unlit by fires, not drinking, not talking, just waiting.
Those wearing plate armor were forced to sit ramrod straight, those in mail
could have stooped. But they didn't.

The sound of
blades being sharpened and buckles being fastened had long since faded away.
Now the only noise was the nickering of the horses and the jangling of tack.
The men wanted to get started, they'd bided their time long enough. It would
take a good four hours to march down from the mountains and onto the southern
plain of Bren. Kedrac looked up at the moon. If he gave the order now, they'd
be there by dawn.

He raised a gloved
fist into the cold, crackling air, held it for six seconds-one for each
thousand-and then brought it down to his side.

The mountainside
began to move. A swarm of dark forms rose up above the ice; banners were
raised, horses were mounted, loose circles of troops became columns. Kedrac
chose not to address the men-in their present state words would have no
meaning. They knew the plan. They would take no prisoners. They were ready to
slaughter the Wall.

Kedrac turned and
made his way down from the rise. The storm was behind them, Bren was ahead of
them, and if he met his father on the field, then so be it.

They raced down
corridors, their swords wet and dripping, the blood slow to dry in the damp air
beneath the stone. Jack's lungs were burning, ready to explode. His head felt
as if someone was beating it with a hammer. They were descending quickly now.
The corridors sloped downward and began to look like tunnels, the rock only
planed smooth where it jutted too far from the wall. The narrowness of the ways
worked in their favor-the hooded ones could only tackle them one at a time.